


Before All Else

by Eggspert



Series: Before All Else [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonically merlin waits around till the present day, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Holding Hands, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental illness soup, Nightmares, Protective Arthur, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Suicide Attempt, Trauma, aha! your depression is magically cured!, also its canon era but like, anyway this story has merlin start out rough but get better, arthur in love w merlin sorry not sorry, but not like, hey now you are actually capable of having good days along with the bad, idk - Freeform, more like, okay its canon compliant but like, the one thing magic can't do is cure depression babey!!!, while arthur is catching some Zs in a lake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggspert/pseuds/Eggspert
Summary: 1500 years of traveling, watching, and waiting for his king to return has worn on Merlin. No one was ever meant to live this long, and he is tired.  After years of researching, he's finally figured out how to die.Destiny has other plans.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Before All Else [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992754
Comments: 26
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lmao so i have been trying to write this one other fic for months and also i have put off doing like six things of homework and an entire lab report to a Dangerous degree but this thing would Not leave me alone. Also!! Would like to credit that hypothetical S6 script, merlin kingdom come, for some bits and bobs of Merlin's brand of not-coping 
> 
> happy halloween have some angst!!!!!
> 
> also i apologize to any welsh readers bc i used welsh words for my spell language bc the canon spell language is a Lot,,,,,,, also i used google translate so ,,,,, uh yeah that speaks for itself. 
> 
> Spells: Galwaf y glaw, a'r gwynt, a'r tân! Rwy'n cynnig anadl fy mywyd i chi!: I call the rain, and the wind, and the fire! I offer you the breath of my life!  
> Rwy'n rhoi fy nghorff fel y gall y ddaear dyfu a ffynnu!: I give my body so the earth may grow and prosper!  
> Rwy'n clymu'r cwlwm i rwymo fy ngrym!: I tie the knot to bind my power!  
> Cymerwch hi i chi'ch hun! Fy anrheg i chi!: Take it for yourself! My gift to you!

The old man stares at the wall opposite him with eyes unseeing. A sliver of dusk-light slips through the cracks in the shutters and slants across the floor. His robes are dirty, not cleaned in days. Perhaps weeks. He’s lost count, which is funny in a way, considering counting is the only thing he’s been able to cling to these many years. 

A breath slips from his mouth. It’s not quite a sigh. Barely audible, but it marks… something. A gathering of resolve. 

His veiny hands find the floor beneath him, helping him push upright. His joints crack and pop from disuse. The man does not wince, does not make any sound. This pain is nothing but a reminder that he is still tethered to a body, one that is withered beyond imagining, yet stubbornly lingers. Once, he had felt much like a guest overstaying his welcome. Now, he feels like a prisoner, left in some dark corner of an abandoned cell to rot. Trapped. Forgotten. Alone. 

So alone. 

“Mph,” he grimaces. He pats down his robes, sparing half a thought to clean them finally. It’s been fifteen hundred years to the day, today, and he will not suffer to wait another. He goes to the wall, picks up the piece of charcoal worn down to a nub, and marks a line that crosses four others. It’s nice that the tallies would end on a neat, even five. He’s always liked the fives best. A handful more of nothing-days that can be grouped together, brushed aside, and promptly forgotten about. It would’ve made him smile, years ago, before his face had set into lines and folds and creases that didn’t quite know how to move that way anymore. 

He moves through the house. There are books full of anything and everything strewn all over the rooms, stacked precariously without thought for any kind of organization. Most of them don’t mean much anymore. There is only the record room that matters, and it is there that he is headed. 

This room is as close to clean as he would ever get, at least for the rooms in the house that he thinks of as his.  _ His  _ room is kept pristine, always. Just in case. 

_ Foolish. _

He goes to the latest in a stack of dozens of journals. He opens it and flicks through to the next blank page, not stopping to read any of the ones in the middle. He knows what they say. 

The next page is the second to last one, and it makes him frown deeply. With the day being what it is, and the five tally mark even-ness, it would have been nice if it had also been the last page. But he supposes you can’t have everything. He knows  _ that  _ lesson better than anyone who has ever lived, or ever would. 

The man picks up a ballpoint pen, clicks the tip idly a few times, then sets it back down. No. If he could not have the last page, he could at least do  _ this  _ right. He rummages around through half a dozen drawers before he comes up with a bent feather quill and a nearly-empty inkwell. It doesn’t matter that the ink’s almost gone. He doesn’t need much for this entry anyway. 

He dips the quill nub into the ink, shakes off the excess, and hovers the pen over the page. In his hesitation, a blob of black falls from the pen and plops onto the page. “Agh!” he bares his teeth in frustration, hastily sending a wave of magic over the page and wiping it clean. The wordless spell makes him woozy—all his magic has been lately—but the nausea passes soon enough, and he dips the pen again. He takes a deep breath in, and out, and sets the tip to the paper. He reaches back in his mind for the old language. It’s never far away, as all of these notebooks are written in the same tongue. He writes: 

_ “ _ _ Day 547,500 _ _ ” _

A fat tear rolls down his cheek, sinking into the paper further down. He doesn’t vanish it with his magic this time. He starts again. 

_ “ _ _ Day 547,500 _

_ I love you, Arthur. I always have. _

_ Goodbye. _

_ Yours,” _

The man stares down at the page, tears flowing in earnest now. He doesn’t sign it. He thinks that  _ ‘yours’  _ is as good an identifier as any, for that is what he was above all else. He existed for Arthur. One half of a whole. Pointless without the other. 

The man sighs, wipes his tears away, and draws away from the table. He leaves the book open on that page, so the ink can dry. Then, he combs through his scraps of parchment for the spell, snags a cord of thrice-braided iron, and upends a pile of phony magical artifacts until he comes up with a long bundle wrapped in oilskin. He steps out of his house, but leaves the door unlocked. It doesn’t matter if someone else moves in once he’s gone. They won’t be able to see its true contents, anyway. Well _. He_ would. But that’s just unlikely.

The sun has long since sunk behind the hills. Rays of rose-pink and gold fight valiantly against the dark, but it’s a losing battle. The man treks down to the shore of the lake that has haunted him for centuries, to where the preparations have already been made. There is a round flat stone raised out of the earth, chalk markings in swirls and runes, tallow candles set strategically around the circle. 

It is an altar of sorts. 

There’s a gale blowing in from the north, making the waters of Lake Avalon white and choppy. The man faces the wind. He smells fresh rain and the  _ zing  _ of lightning on the move. He nods in silent thanks. He’d been planning on calling rain for the ritual anyway. It’s like the earth is finally on his side, raring to aid him in his last great spell. 

The man kneels carefully in the middle of the chalk circle. He unwraps the bundle with reverence, revealing a gleaming blade set through with runes. Thrumming against his skin, he can feel the heat of the dragon-fire that tempered it. He presses his lips to the blade, just beneath the cross-guard, and whispers its name, “Excalibur.” A golden shiver passes through the sword. It knows the hand that holds it. 

With a flick of his finger, he levitates Excalibur so the blade is facing up toward the sky. The dizziness strikes again, but the man shakes his head determinedly. He doesn’t have time to deal with whatever this is, low blood sugar or dehydration or exhaustion or what-have-you. He’s the most powerful sorcerer in the world! He can control his own  _ body _ . 

He lifts himself up a bit, still on his knees, and he grips the blade with gnarled, arthritic hands until the shining steel is slick with red. He raises a bloody thumb and swipes it from his brow down the length of his nose, then dots his cheeks, marks the insides of his wrists, and down his forearms. 

He takes a deep breath and calls out:  _ “Galwaf y glaw, a'r gwynt, a'r tân! Rwy'n cynnig anadl fy mywyd i chi!”  _ The storm picks up abruptly. Clouds swirl in a black mass overhead. Lightning crackles within the dark, a strange muffled blue. The candles ignite, their flames roaring five feet high, then ten. _ “Rwy'n rhoi fy nghorff fel y gall y ddaear dyfu a ffynnu!”  _ The man sways on creaking knees. To an observer he might look like a supplicant in rapturous prayer. Perhaps that’s not terribly different from the truth.

His head is pounding. His ears are ringing from the rush of power and the twisting of it in his head. His eyes cross a bit, but he soldiers on. _“Rwy'n clymu'r cwlwm i rwymo fy ngrym! Cymerwch hi i chi'ch hun! Fy anrheg i chi!”_ Here, he lashes the iron cord over his wrists, binding them tightly together. He’d lain enchantments into the metal himself, so it burns far more potently than the cold iron of old. Vision whiting out from the pain, he gasps out one last desperate plea. _“Goddess, hear me!”_

His magic is eating him alive from the inside, constrained by the iron cord and not liking it one bit, but the enchantments hold. A mighty crack of lightning strikes the earth near him, rattling his old bones. 

He breathes in, then out. Then, just as the spell keeping Excalibur floating begins to flicker out without his magic to sustain it, the man pitches himself forward onto the blade. It pierces his heart directly, just as he’d wanted.

He breathes in.

Out.

In.

Out.

When his eyes slide shut at last, he is smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

When Arthur comes to, he is drowning. 

He sees orange light, then brilliant blue, playing on the surface of the water. Everything else is pitch black, so Arthur kicks upward. It’s a struggle, bogged down as he is by his armor, but he’s still got the body of a strong warrior (no matter how often Merlin makes insinuations to the contrary.) 

_ Merlin. _

Even as he breaks the surface and takes his first lungful of air, he feels like he’s drowning all over again.  _ Where’s Merlin? I was dying! How am I alive? Magic? Merlin is a sorcerer. Oh  _ gods.  _ But Merlin traveled with me; he isn’t evil. Gwen? Camelot? Mordred! _

Frantically treading water, all he sees is an expanse of blackness before him, so he turns around, and he sees something that would’ve made him falter even if he were hale and well-rested: an old man on his knees at the shore, shouting at the sky—no, the  _ storm  _ looming overhead. There are flames swirling around him, growing with his rage, and then with no warning they vanish completely. 

Lightning strikes the ground up on a nearby hill. The clap of thunder is enough to deafen him and leave his ears ringing. “You there! Stop this at once!” Arthur screams, then curses. He can’t hear himself, and he doubts the other man can either. He starts swimming toward him, but the water is buffeted by the heavy winds, slowing his pace to a crawl. He's still a ways out when the man topples forward. 

Onto the blade of a sword.

Yelling in alarm, Arthur redoubles his efforts. His boots touch land a little more than a minute later, and he sprints as fast as his waterlogged armor will allow. He drops to his knees at the man’s side, already analyzing the injury. 

The blade had pierced directly through the man’s heart, and—wait a minute. That’s  _ his sword! _

At first he thinks he must be mistaken, but no. He recognizes those runes just as surely as he’d recognize his own face in the mirror. Where had this man gotten it? Had Merlin given it to him after Arthur had—after he’d… well, he  _ had _ died. Hadn’t he? 

What sort of man would Merlin trust to look after his sword?

With the clinical practicality of a soldier, he moves to roll the man onto his side to get a better look. 

The second he clasps the man’s arm, however, he’s blown back by a wave of pure, glittering magic. It’s the exact opposite of the sort of thing Morgana might cast. This is much warmer, gentling as it deposits him just outside the circle he’d been kneeling in. 

The old man is enveloped by the same golden magic. It flips him over, smoothly withdrawing Excalibur from his chest. No trace of the blood lingers, although it had been coated in the stuff mere seconds beforehand. The blade soars through the air to hover in front of Arthur’s face. He hesitantly grips the hilt. The moment he does, whatever magic had been keeping it upright dispels, nearly causing him to fumble it. 

Despite the chaos in which he's reclaimed it, the familiar weight of the sword comforts Arthur. He sighs, looking back to the old man. Only, the man is rapidly becoming not-all-that-old-after-all. His bone-white mane recedes and darkens until what is left is a younger, clean-shaven,  _ excruciatingly familiar  _ man. 

“Oh gods,” Arthur mouths. He tears back into the circle at full speed. “Merlin!” He shouts.  _ “Merlin!” _ The ringing in his ears is gone now, vanished with the wash of magic. But that doesn’t matter. Not when it’s  _ Merlin  _ on the ground, lying in a pool of his own blood. “Merlin,” he tries again, can’t help himself. “Were you enchanted? Merlin, wake up! Wake  _ up!” _ The glow of magic that had surrounded them starts to fade. The night closes in.

Discarding Excalibur without a second thought, Arthur paws at the rumpled robe Merlin wears, pushing the fabric over his head and wrestling him upright to get it off. It’s not working. It keeps getting caught on Merlin’s arms. Arthur feels around for the obstruction, fingers eventually snagging on something molten hot. “Ow!” he hisses. “What  _ is  _ that?” 

Whatever it is, it has to come off. Arthur shucks the bits of plate buckled to his arms and shoulders, then his chain-mail shirt, until he’s left in his plain red tunic. He wraps his hands in the hem of the fabric, moving back to the burning  _ thing. _ Arthur realizes it’s a metal cord tied around Merlin’s wrists in a simple knot. 

It’s quickly undone, then flung away as fast as a venomous snake found slithering near a cradle.  _ Perhaps that was the thing that had enchanted Merlin? Made him do whatever…  _ this  _ was?  _ Arthur thinks, deliberately crushing the parts of his mind that are screaming in rage and confusion and fear. Those things won’t save Merlin, and he  _ refuses  _ to believe that Merlin cannot be saved. Not after everything they’ve been through together.

Once he’s finally divested of his robes, Merlin sags back against Arthur’s chest. He can feel his manserv—his  _ friend’s  _ blood soaking through his tunic. Bile rises up in the back of his throat. He should have been  _ faster _ . He should have been  _ so many things.  _

Oh so gently, he lowers Merlin to the ground, bends low over his mouth to feel for breath against his cheek, hooks his fingers under Merlin’s sharp jaw to seek out the steady thud of a pulse. 

He finds neither. 

Arthur can’t believe it. Will  _ not believe it.  _ “You aren’t dead, Merlin. You can’t be. I won’t let you go.” There’s an uncomfortable prickling sensation behind his eyes. _ “ _ I am your king, and I  _ order  _ you to come back!” He curls his hand around the nape of Merlin’s neck and pushes their foreheads together. The gesture feels hollow without Merlin grinning back up at him. 

"Right," he whispers, hoarse. "You never did follow my orders. There's no reason you'd start now. I just… Please.” And Arthur doesn’t remember the last time he pleaded for  _ anything _ . “You can’t die, Merlin. Please. Please. You’re my best friend and I—” he chokes off into a sob, curling his body protectively around the other man’s. “I never told you. I died and I never told you that I—cared for you." Even now, with Merlin gone for good, Arthur still can't work up the nerve to really  _ tell  _ him. 

“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know  _ how  _ I’m here, though I suspect you had… something… to do with it…” a thought strikes him that is so terrible he’s paralyzed by it. What if Merlin had gotten some fool notion in his head that he should sacrifice himself for Arthur? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done such a thing, but Arthur is sure there aren’t any magic flowers in distant caves that can save him this time. 

"Gods, Merlin! You held me as I was  _ dying  _ and I was too late to even do  _ that  _ for you,” his voice cracks. “You deserved better than this.” 

He’s shaking like an autumn leaf now, afraid and confused and filled with a deep sorrow that far eclipses anything he had felt when his father had passed on. He weeps for what feels like hours, gets up, stumbles a distance away, vomits up the contents of his stomach, then finds his way in the dark back to Merlin’s side. 

Later, when Arthur is bone-weary, he tears strips from his own tunic and takes them to the lake, soaks them in the water, and washes the blood from Merlin’s skin. The moon leaves just enough light to see by. Arthur passes the wet cloth over Merlin’s chest and arms, his neck, his face, then turns him over and washes his back and shoulders. 

He’ll be at the head of the procession carrying Merlin back to Camelot tomorrow. Tonight, though, he will sit vigil over him, as he had done for his father. 

He wishes circumstances were different, wishes they were back in Camelot so Merlin could be afforded all the honors he deserved, publicly recognized for his service to the crown, privately recognized for being… well. Too many things for  _ Arthur  _ to put into words, certainly. They never had been his strong suit.

But the circumstances are what they are, so Arthur carefully lays Merlin on his back and kneels beside him. He sits in this position for hours on end. He does not sleep, no matter how much the events of the day weigh on him. Instead, he dwells on his memories of Merlin: the good, and the bad. He recalls the first day they met, when Arthur had been nothing but a pompous brat, had thought Merlin nothing more than an unwashed peasant, only worthy of note because of his unabashed insolence. 

How foolish he’d been.

Eventually, the sky begins to lighten. Arthur notices the gash in Merlin’s chest had only bled a little more in the night. The wound looks so… insignificant. Just a deep red line over the man’s heart. Where the metal cord had bound Merlin’s hands, there are raised, horribly swollen welts. Stupidly, Arthur finds himself wishing he had a balm to soothe them. 

The amount of scars Merlin has are… troubling, to say the least. Nicks from swords and other pointed weapons dot his arms and torso. A massive burn spans half his chest. 

Arthur wants to know where it came from, where they  _ all  _ came from. He wants to hear about every single one of Merlin’s deeds for himself. He never will.

With an angry sigh, Arthur stands, going to fish Excalibur out of the grass. While the sun hasn’t yet peeked up over the horizon, it’s light enough now that he’s sure he won’t lose his way. He needs to find help to make a litter to transport Merlin's bo _—Merlin._

It kills Arthur to leave Merlin out here like this, alone and vulnerable, but his limbs will have locked up by now. There’s no way Arthur would be able to carry him like that without assistance.

He’s only been walking a little ways when he comes across a house. It’s perched on the crest of a hill, overlooking the lake. Arthur doesn’t recall anyone living near the Lake of Avalon, especially not anyone so noteworthy as to have a house with two floors and glass windows. 

He circles around front and bangs on the door. No one answers him, so he tests the handle. To his surprise, the door swings open without a sound. 

Arthur has only just taken his first wary step into the strange house when the screaming starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do promise it will get better ;;; 
> 
> (also yes i know that u should always check pulse/breathing first when coming upon an unconscious person but arthur is Stressed)


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur’s running before he’s even made the conscious choice to. He  _ knew  _ leaving Merlin alone was a bad idea! Who knows who might be lurking around the Avalon woods? Sorcerers and bandits and ruffians of all sorts, and Arthur had just  _ left him _ —! He crashes through the underbrush into the clearing where Merlin lay. 

The only problem is: Merlin isn’t laying there anymore. 

At first, Arthur thinks that maybe, despite being one of the most renowned trackers in the whole of the five kingdoms, he’s somehow managed to get lost. But no. There is the rounded stone at the shore with scuffed chalk markings. There are the bits and bobs of Arthur’s armor discarded in the grass. There is Merlin’s spilled blood. Curiously enough, Merlin’s robes are also gone. 

The horrified screaming has devolved into muted yelling, but it’s close at hand, so Arthur trots back off into the forest. This time, his aim is stealth rather than speed. It’s an easy trail to follow, marked by uprooted trees and scorched greenery.

Edging out from behind a cluster of saplings, he feels the wind knocked out of him, goes lightheaded with relief. Merlin, in clean (but still rumpled) robes, is before him. 

An upright, fuming, breathing,  _ living  _ Merlin. 

“Why?” he bellows at the sky. “I did the best I could! Just  _ let me go!” _ He shoots off a burst of blue energy. It hits the crown of a nearby pine, cleanly severing it from the rest of the tree. 

“Merlin,” he croaks. His voice is shot, made raspy and hoarse from a night’s worth of abuse. For the second time today, he discards Excalibur, leans it upright against a splintered tree trunk. 

He compels himself forward, suddenly burning with the need to  _ touch.  _ To make sure that this is real and not some feverish vision brought on by exhaustion and grief. “Merlin!” 

Merlin freezes in the midst of casting another spell. He slowly lowers his hands. When he faces Arthur, his face is completely devoid of emotion. “Leave me be,” he says.

“What?” Arthur asks, incredulous, his brilliant smile dimming into something uncertain. “Merlin? You were  _ dead!  _ And you want me to  _ leave you?” _

“I  _ was  _ dead,” Merlin arches a brow, still unbearably neutral. “As you can see, I’m just fine now, so you can swan off to do whatever it is you do when you aren’t terrorizing me. I’m not in the mood for you today.”

Arthur, increasingly unsettled, comes to stand in front of Merlin. The other man’s hands are clenched into fists. His cheeks are flushed; sweat shines on his brow. And still, Arthur wants to touch him. _“Mer_ lin,” he drawls, but he does not miss Merlin’s bodily flinch. “Merlin, I don’t know what that was earlier. What I do know is that you weren't breathing and your heart had ceased to beat. For _hours_. Forgive me for being surprised that an idiot like _you_ managed to come back from something like _that.”_

Merlin crosses his arms, thoroughly unamused. The sleeve of his robe rides up enough to reveal raised burn marks around his wrist. Arthur snags Merlin’s arm and pushes the fabric back more fully, concerned. The skin is swollen, seeping, and hot to the touch. “Merlin, you need to get these treated. The last thing I need is you succumbing to a blood fever after all that… commotion…” Merlin is staring at him with eyes as round as dinner plates, blinking rapidly. “What? Have I got something on my face?” 

He yanks his hand out of Arthur’s grasp. An injured whine sounds from low in his throat. “I felt that.”

“What?” Arthur looks back at him. His face is crumpled, blue eyes glistening wetly. 

“You touched me and I  _ felt it.”  _

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, Merlin,” he says, with exaggerated slowness. “That is what tends to happen when people touch things.” 

“I-I’ve never—you can’t—I  _ can’t _ —That was the only way. That was the  _ only way.” _ Merlin is shaking violently now, backing away from Arthur, and Arthur is at a loss for what to do. He and Merlin have faced all manner of dangers together, but not once has he seen the other man look so terrified. 

“Merlin,” he starts.

Merlin violently shakes his head.  _ “No!  _ I told you. Leave me  _ be!  _ I won’t listen to your  _ lies  _ anymore!” 

“When have I lied to you?” Arthur’s brought up short. Of all the accusations he expected to be hurled at him, this was not one of them. He rather thought they had established that between the two of them, Merlin was the one who lied the most.

“All you can do is pretend to be him!” Merlin hisses. “But you aren’t! You never will be, because he  _ isn’t coming BACK!”  _ He’s backing away from Arthur now, eyes burning gold. “I  _ will  _ dispel you if I have to. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how.” 

Arthur frowns, raising his hands in surrender. “Merlin, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Merlin opens his mouth to say something else, but Arthur can tell he’s just going to continue spouting nonsense without really  _ explaining  _ anything, so he gives him a withering look. 

“Merlin, please adjust whatever you’re about to say to account for the fact that I just woke up yesterday evening in the middle of a lake, watched my dearest friend die, mourned for him all through the night, then found him wandering around in the woods firing spells at innocent trees the next morning. I don’t know how any of this came to be or  _ why  _ it came to be and said friend is being incredibly cryptic and I am  _ tired.  _ So, if you could do me a favor and just get to the point.”

“You…  _ actually _ expect me to believe you’re real this time, don’t you?” Merlin narrows his eyes.

“I  _ am  _ real!” Arthur explodes. “How am I supposed to prove that to you? How could  _ you  _ prove that you’re real to  _ me?” _

Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn't know what to say. 

“What do you mean,” Arthur presses on, “when you say ‘this time?’”

His jaw clenches. “I mean exactly that. The…  _ real  _ you died. And then some time later I started seeing… visions of you. At first I thought you’d returned like the dragon said you would, but you’d always do or say something wrong, or you’d try to touch me and pass right through, and I’d figure out that you weren’t real at all. It’s too much to bear.” 

And that’s quite a lot to unpack, so Arthur files his questions away with the many  _ many  _ others for later. He focuses on the issue at hand. “I just touched you and you felt it. I’m solid. That’s not enough to prove anything?”

“No!” Merlin snaps. 

Arthur just tilts his head, wordless indication to explain. 

“It’s just,” Merlin says in a small voice. “I’ve never been gone that long before and something happened to my magic. It feels… I don’t know… it's just different. It’s hard to put into words. The point is there’s a chance it’s figured out a way to make you  _ seem  _ solid as a way to… y’know… appease me. I refuse to let myself believe you’re here when you aren’t. Again.”

Arthur is still quite firmly caught up on _‘I’ve never been gone that long before’_ because that means he’s done something like this _before_ and Arthur can’t wrap his head around that. Can’t wrap his head around just the once, either. He fights down the urge to just pin Merlin down and demand he explain himself; he doubts it would go over well. “How often has this happened? The _visions_ of me appearing?” 

“I’ve lost count.” 

“Is there anything else I can do that would prove to you that I am, in fact, not a figment of your imagination?”

Merlin frowns deeply. He mumbles something too quiet for Arthur to hear.

“Could you repeat that, Merlin? Not all of us are gifted with ears as large as yours.”

Merlin doesn’t rise to the bait. “I said. Stay.”

”Oh, good. I thought it would be something difficult.”

Merlin raises a brow, dubious. “You don’t stick around for more than a day at a time, usually. My magic sustains you. I think.”

“Oh, you think?” Arthur scowls. “I  _ do  _ intend on wringing the truth out of you, you know, about all the things I've missed, and what  _ happened  _ to make you think that doing  _ whatever  _ this is—” he cuts himself off. Crying over a dead man with no one around to see is one thing, but crying in front of Merlin  _ because  _ of Merlin is simply out of the question. It must be the shock, Arthur decides, that’s making him so emotional. He takes a steadying breath. “I suspect that all would take more than a day to get through.”

“Yes, it would,” Merlin readily agrees, eyes unfocused and far-away, so much older than the rest of his face.

Once he feels the silence has dragged on too long, Arthur claps his hands together, "Now. About that house on the hill. Do you think whoever lives there will be opposed to giving us lodging, maybe food? A spare tunic, even? Mine's seen better days." He gestures to the red cloth clinging to his chest, covered in dark stains and torn up at the hems. 

"Um," Merlin says intelligently. He looks… shifty. 

Arthur’s eyes narrow. "Yes, Merlin?" 

"It's nothing," he says too hastily. "I'm sure the owner of the house will be amenable." As he whispers the words to a spell, he moves his hands in a way Arthur is sure is more elaborate than necessary, though he grunts in appreciation as his shirt is cleaned and repaired in the blink of an eye. 

Arthur is just about to ask if Merlin had been using his magic to weasel out of doing his chores properly all these years, but a bout of clarity strikes him and he realizes Merlin is  _ trying  _ to distract him. It’s much easier to spot the ways he prevaricates now. "The full truth please, Merlin."

Merlin shrugs, at least having the decency to look sheepish. "Right. Yes. That's my house. You’re welcome to stay in it until you, er, dissipate."

Arthur gives him a Look. 

"What?" Merlin raises his hands defensively. 

"How did  _ you  _ get a hold of a house like that? Did Gwen give you a title? Lord Merlin of Avalon? It has a nice ring to it.” Beneath his teasing is genuine curiosity. Though small, it had seemed a fine estate, barring the lacking security and absence of staff.

"No. She didn’t.” 

It’s clear from his icy tone that that's all he'll say on the subject. Arthur wonders if they'd had a falling out since he'd been gone. 

It’s with a start Arthur realizes this is the first time he’s thought of Gwen since waking up in the lake. He wonders what she’s gotten up to after his death, if she’s remarried, or had children. He decides he’ll ask Merlin tomorrow. Maybe they can both return to Camelot. Not to resume their old lives—it’s obvious from Merlin’s behavior that he’s been gone some time—but to see what had become of the kingdom he had been raised to protect. 

Quashing his thoughts lest they turn too bitter, Arthur retrieves Excalibur and follows Merlin back out of the forest in relative silence, Merlin keeping a careful distance between them. As they walk, the uprooted trees right themselves, leaves and flowers regrow, birds and butterflies swoop out of the underbrush and flit about Merlin’s head before flying away. He looks like he belongs here, tending to the creatures of the earth. Healing. 

“Beautiful,” Arthur says without thinking.

Merlin stops in his tracks, peering at him with evident suspicion. “What.”

“Your magic! It’s… er… beautiful.” 

“...Right.” His shoulders hunch forward and he quickens his pace. Arthur opens his mouth to say something, try and address whatever offense he’d committed, but he has the distinct impression that any further conversation is unwanted. Besides, Arthur thinks he’s had enough life-altering revelations for one day.

They reach the house not long after this. Instead of going to the front door, as Arthur had earlier, Merlin leads him around back to a side entrance. He unlocks it with a muttered word, then steps aside to allow Arthur to go in first. It’s a show of deference that feels out of place when it’s just the two of them, but he makes no comment.

Inside is an obvious attempt at replicating Arthur’s chambers. It’s utterly jarring. 

The biggest difference is the bed, a four-postered canopied monstrosity which somehow appears even more luxurious than the one back at Camelot. His piles of state documents are missing, of course, as is the view looking out onto the citadel’s courtyard. Otherwise, the dimensions are the same, as is the majority of the furniture, even down to the metal bathtub and privacy screen in the corner. Arthur is sure that the room is shaped differently than the outside of the house would lead anyone to believe, but he supposes a sorcerer’s home  _ would  _ be strange.

“I trust you can get yourself situated?” Merlin asks in a clipped tone. 

To Arthur, it sounds like he’d wanted to add a snide sounding  _ ‘sire’  _ to the end of that, and he wishes he had. Anything to lessen this widening gulf between them. He reminds himself to be patient. That it's only because Merlin doesn't trust that Arthur is the same one he used to know, the one who had died in his arms and been gone for who knows how long. And that’s another thing!

“Merlin, how long  _ was  _ I—”

“No.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Arthur bristles, irritated. “I have a right to know!”

“No.” There’s steely determination in his gaze. Something else, too. A hint of fear. “That is not a conversation for today. I will only have it once, and not until I’m sure—well. You know.”

“I suppose that’s sensible,” the king acquiesces. Merlin is in pain too, from this. Probably more than Arthur is, if his erratic behavior is anything to go by. He remembers Merlin’s bloodless face so clearly, the sag of his limp body in Arthur’s arms. Shuddering, he clears his throat. “I understand. Or, well, maybe I don’t, but. I’m sorry. For what happened, and for any role I have played in your suffering.” He looks imploringly at Merlin, trying to express with his eyes what he can’t with his words. 

His reply is sharp and swift. “You are not to blame for any of this. Everything.  _ Everything  _ bad that has befallen us can be traced back to a decision I made, or failed to make.  _ All of this  _ is my fault, Arth—” he cuts himself off with a frustrated cry, all but fleeing to what would have been the antechamber in Arthur’s old rooms.

“Wait.” 

To his surprise, Merlin does. 

“Even if that were true—which I doubt, by the way—that doesn’t mean you deserve any of this…  _ hurt _ .” Raking a hand through his hair in agitation, he continues. “I’m  _ glad  _ you’re alive, Merlin. I… I felt… lost, when—well, I thought…” he trails off helplessly. A flush heats his cheeks. He’s not used to being so… vulnerable.

Merlin is facing away from him, head bowed, a tremulous hand on the door. “I’ll be back with dinner soon. I’ll help you wash up after.” Despite the mundanity of his words, his voice is thick with some unnamed emotion. He creaks the door open and slips through. But, before he goes, Arthur swears he hears a murmured:  _ ‘I felt lost, too.’ _

With a sigh, Arthur sinks into the fur-lined armchair in front of the fireplace. This, too, is more comfortable than his own, but he isn’t complaining. With a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and warm furs at his back, he finally releases the tension in his body and closes his eyes. He’ll rest them a little, Arthur decides, just until Merlin comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chap left in this one!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaaaaa lmao so i just have gotten sick of reading over this and i think i just need to post it to get it out of my system
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!!
> 
> Spells:  
> Mynd allan.: Go out.

_Crash!_

Arthur bolts upright and whips around, slides into a fighting stance before he’s even fully awake. Half-formed thoughts of _‘Bandits!’_ and _‘Morgana’s invaded again!’_ and _‘Where’s Merlin?!’_ slip away immediately, because Merlin is right there on his knees, picking up shards of shattered ceramic with horribly shaking hands. Arthur bends down to help him. “You’ll hurt yourself, carrying on like that.”

Merlin startles badly, looks up at him with tear-tracked cheeks and a mouth gone slack with shock. “You’re still here?”

Arthur raises a questioning brow. “Obviously.” He looks down at himself, then more closely at Merlin. The other man had cleaned himself up some. He’d replaced his long robes with dark form-fitting trousers and a blue tunic that looks softer and warmer than any Arthur has ever seen. The sleeves bulge out around his wrists, where he must have bandaged them.

“Right,” he exhales shakily. They place all the shards on a wooden trencher. Then, Merlin flicks his finger and all the shards come together to make a white pot dotted with blue flowers. There’s a handle on one end, and a spout on the other, like a strangely shaped ewer. It is decidedly Merlin-like. “I’ll just, um, go put the kettle on again. Dinner’s almost up.” He scurries away before Arthur can say anything more.

He returns to the armchair, then pauses thoughtfully. The chair is positioned in such a way that its back faces Merlin’s door. He must have come in and thought the worst when Arthur wasn’t immediately visible. Sighing, he squats down, lifts the thing up a few inches, and manhandles it into place. This way, he can still feel the warmth of the fire, and he’ll be in full view of Merlin for next time.

All thought of relaxation is gone now. Arthur finds himself pacing, looking anxiously at the door every few seconds. He tells himself the agitation is only borne of boredom, but he knows deep down that’s untrue. He’s just made his mind up to barge out of the room when Merlin sidles in again. He’s loaded down with a heavier trencher than before. The ewer and a pair of dainty-looking cups occupy half of it, and the other has two plates piled high with roasted beef and some diced root vegetables drenched in aromatic sauce. 

Merlin carries the tray over to a small dining table. There are two chairs. It’s another difference, but not one he minds terribly. The dark-haired man places the platters of food down, then the serviettes and the cutlery. He pours a fragrant steaming liquid into the fragile cups and sits, giving Arthur a nervous half-smile before tilting his head at the other chair.

Any illusion of dignity on Arthur’s behalf is ruined when his stomach growls. Loudly. Merlin smothers a laugh behind his hand, belatedly turning it into a cough. “Oh, do shut up,” Arthur gripes without any real heat. Sliding into his seat, he tucks into the meal with gusto. “This is excellent, Merlin," he says around a mouthful of spiced meat. "I didn’t know you could cook!” 

Merlin, who had been intently watching Arthur as he ate, makes an affronted noise. “I cooked all the time for you and the knights on patrol.”

“Hmm, yes. Allow me to clarify. I didn’t know you could cook _well.”_

This is somewhat unfair, as Merlin had always been forced to make do with whatever they could scavenge on their journeys, but this is the closest thing they’ve had to their old banter and Arthur is loath to give it up. 

“What, rat stew not good enough for Your Royal Pratness?” Merlin teases. _Teasing! Progress!_

“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m your king, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur rolls his eyes, though he’s grinning broadly. “Or have you forgotten?”

Merlin’s expression shutters at once, the levity of the moment seeping away like water into parched soil. He looks down at his hands fisted in the hem of his soft blue shirt. “No. _That,_ I have never forgotten. Not once.” 

“Merlin—?” Sensing the gravity of his misstep, Arthur reaches out. To touch Merlin’s arm, to clasp his hand? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t get the chance to, as Merlin gets up, his own meal barely touched. 

“Drink your tea before it gets cold. I’ll come back to clear away soon.” And then he’s gone again.

Arthur slams his hand down on the table. “Dammit!” He stalks after the other man, goes to fling open the door, but finds it won’t budge. “Merlin! Either you let me in there, or you come _back_ in _here!_ I will not be held prisoner in your home!” 

And he’s not sure what he expected. Merlin to come rushing back to Arthur’s room? To fall to his knees and apologize for storming off? To just explain what’s been going on, and how Arthur can make it better? Merlin does none of these things. 

Out of curiosity, or perhaps spite, Arthur goes to the other door, the one that opens outside, but that remains unlocked. He thinks about leaving for a moment, to go find somewhere to cool off that isn’t _here,_ but then he remembers Merlin’s tear-streaked horror after thinking he’d disappeared earlier, and feels ashamed for having even considered it. 

Instead, Arthur quietly finishes his meal, drinks his tea, and stacks all the dishes up on the trencher. He mills aimlessly about the room before coming to stop at the bookcase. The titles are strange, mostly because they don’t actually sound boring. Arthur feels touched by this small consideration. Merlin had known how much Arthur hated reading the dry texts foisted upon him by Geoffrey and Gaius and his old tutors. 

He plucks one off the shelf at random: a book bound in emerald green leather entitled _The Princess Bride._ He wrinkles his nose at it. _Really, Merlin. How much more of a girl’s petticoat could you be?_

Still, Merlin _had_ put it there. There must have been a reason, even if the thing was meant as a joke. Perhaps he’d get a good laugh out of it. 

He takes the book and pads over to the bed, peels off his boots and stockings, unbuckles his belt and flings it to the floor, and crawls beneath the thick comforter. There’s enough candlelight in the room to see by, so Arthur cracks open the book and begins to read. 

The first part is confusing. The book seems to be set in a fantastical place where average citizens can afford luxurious beds, and strange boxes display moving, audible pictures, but once that’s over with, the story becomes rather engaging. He’s a good way through—a mysterious man dressed in all black has just bested a swordsman in an honorable, if unrealistic, duel—when Merlin eases the door open. 

“Still haven’t learned how to knock, have we?” Arthur asks archly, not rising from the bed. This is partly because he doesn’t want to spook Merlin off again, and partly because he’s rather comfortable right where he is. 

Merlin jumps a bit, then mutters, “the prat honestly thinks he can order me around in my own house.”

Arthur huffs. “The _prat_ can hear you, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin, trencher in hand, just snorts. Arthur would like to think there’d been a hint of fondness in it. 

He disappears again after that, though he’s not gone for nearly as long. When he returns yet again, Arthur doesn’t notice until he’s halfway across the room, engrossed as he is in reading about the giant’s past history as a competitive wrestler. 

“I knew you’d like it!” the sorcerer crows. He’s made himself at home at the foot of the bed without even asking permission. The gall of it soothes something in Arthur. “Let me guess. You weren’t going to give it a chance until the grandfather started selling it to the little boy, right? But as soon as he mentioned pirates and torture and revenge, you were interested!” 

Arthur flushes up to his ears, because that was exactly what had happened. “The strange setting and girlish title were off-putting!” 

“And yet,” Merlin waggles his brows, a victorious grin brightening his face into something blinding. The smile eventually fades though, as all things are wont to do, and a pensive expression takes its place. “Do you want a bath tonight? I could just magic you clean if you don’t want to leave the bed.”

“Really?” Arthur leans forward, intrigued despite himself. “Why have a tub at all then?” 

“Sometimes it’s nice to sit in the water and soak,” Merlin shrugs. “And I don’t know how comfortable you’d be with me using my magic _on_ you.” 

“I trust you. Besides,” he says with a rueful smile, “you can just give me a bath tomorrow instead.” 

Merlin gulps, then looks away, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. The golden flash of his eyes is Arthur’s only warning before a tingling sensation races over his body. It makes his hair stand on end, but he does indeed feel cleaner. The scent of crushed pine needles and cloves fills the air. Arthur realizes belatedly that it’s coming from him. 

“Well, um,” Merlin slaps his hands against his thighs, standing. “That’s all I came in here for. It’s getting late. I should let you get to sleep, hm?” He stretches his arms over his head, yawning exaggeratedly. The hem of his shirt rises up high enough that Arthur catches a glimpse of his pale belly. 

“Wait,” Arthur sets his book on the bedside table. 

“Hm?” 

“Can you put out all the candles at once from here?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Of course I can. Or you could do it yourself. You know, like a normal person.” 

“Well you’ve got an unfair advantage!”

“I suppose I do,” Merlin hums consideringly. “Mm… alright. Fine,” he waves a hand. _“Mynd allan.”_ As soon as the words have left his lips, the room is plunged into darkness. “Hm. I didn’t think this far ahead.” 

The quip Arthur had been about to make dies on his tongue, because seemingly without thought, Merlin summons a shimmering sphere of blue light. It hovers above his head as he picks his way over to the door. 

“The light in the Caves of Balor. That was you,” Arthur breathes. “Of course it was. You were half dead”—Merlin sucks in a breath—”and _still_ trying to protect me. I was such an idiot!” Arthur flings himself back onto his pillows, glaring up at the canopy of his bed. “Thank you, Merlin. For everything you’ve done. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks or recognition,” Merlin says softly. “Not any of it.” He’s closer now. 

“Yes, well, all the same. I owe you my life. I have since that first day.”

There’s a warm chuckle in the dark. “Mm. When I told you I could take you apart with less than one blow and then showed incredible restraint by _not_ doing that?" 

“Not the first day, then,” Arthur amends, going beet-red. “The second. The nasty business with the feast and the sorceress and the dagger.” 

“I do seem to recall something to that effect, yes, now that you mention it. The night Uther unwittingly placed a sorcerer right at the heart of Camelot.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Yes, I suppose he did do that. Gods, but he'd be furious.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then, “Goodnight, Arthur.” 

“Merlin.”

“Yes?”

“You just called me Arthur.” 

“I. Um. Well, yes, I did. That’s your name. It doesn’t mean anything.” The slight tremor in his voice betrays him. 

Arthur scowls. “Do you really think I’ll be gone in the morning?”

“I don’t know what to think,” comes the level reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 _“Mer_ lin.”

“What?” the other man snaps.

“Nothing. Goodnight.” 

The light fades away. The door opens and slams shut with a little more force than necessary. 

Arthur doesn’t know how long it takes him to fall asleep. But when he does, it’s fitful. He tosses and turns, has nightmares that have him bolting upright in bed, though they're already half-forgotten. Faces from his past cycle through them. Gwen, Lancelot, Morgana, Gaius, his father, and more than anyone else: Merlin. Finally, he can’t stand it anymore. He needs to see him. 

He’d torn his tunic off in the night at some point, but can’t be bothered to go hunting for it in the dark. All that matters is seeing Merlin. Knowing he’s alright, and not gone and _dead and_ _bleeding out, limp in Arthur’s arms._ He tries the not-antechamber door and breathes a sigh of relief when the handle turns easily this time.

The sigh turns into a (very manly, not at all girlish) shriek when a warm body spills onto the stone floor of Arthur’s chambers. “Oh, bloody hell!” the body hisses. 

_“Merlin?_ What are you doing here?” 

Merlin freezes in the middle of massaging the back of his head. “What are… _you_ doing here?” he counters.

“This is _my room!”_

“Fair point,” Merlin admits wryly. He rolls to his feet. “Sorry. I just. Um,” he trails off. "Do you want a glass of water?" 

“You’re a fool,” Arthur observes, blunt as ever. 

“Wha—?” Merlin’s protest is cut off by Arthur hooking a hand through his elbow and hauling him towards the bed. 

“Come on. You’re sleeping here tonight.” 

_“What?”_

“Listen,” Arthur explains as he shoves Merlin onto the bed. “I've been having nightmares about—um. Well. What happened. It would be… _advantageous_ for me to have you nearby so I can get a proper night’s rest. Besides, that floor is cold as ice.”

“Now I _know_ you’re not real.” 

“Oh, I very much am,” Arthur’s grin edges toward the feral side of things. “And if you still don’t believe it come morning, I’ll go track down a pair of practice swords and beat some sense into you.” 

Wiggling his way under the blankets, Merlin grumbles. “Why do I feel like you’d somehow find a way to pull that off?”

“Because I have an infinite amount of charm, Merlin. It’s just lost on you.” Arthur rolls a bit closer to Merlin. When he’d gotten up earlier, all the heat had escaped from beneath the quilt. It’s only natural he’d seek out the nearest source of it. 

“Sorry,” Merlin snipes, scooting closer to Arthur in turn. “I must have confused your ‘charm’ with an infuriating sense of superiority.” 

“Yes, you must have,” he murmurs. And Arthur is all too aware of the space between their hands. Merlin’s is curled around a fluffy pillow, and his is splayed against the linen sheets, just inches away. “Merlin?” he breathes, wants to ask but can’t quite bring himself to.

Merlin understands what he wants anyway. He reaches for Arthur and weaves their fingers together. His thumb rubs soothing circles over one knuckle. 

Arthur's breath catches at the small intimacy, the _allowance_ of touch. “You don’t think I’m like the visions at all, do you,” he realizes with sudden certainty. 

“No. _Yes_. I don’t know,” Merlin groans. “I just… What's different? Why now? What is happening now in the world that is so much worse than _everything else?"_ The circling of his thumb speeds up. "Something in me died with you, Arthur. And a little more of me has gone each day without you. I feel like I have nothing left to give,” he starts to pull away. “What if this is some big mistake? Or a cruel trick? What if I wake up one day and find you gone again? That would be—" he takes a ragged breath. "This just… _can't_ be true. It's been too long." 

Arthur needs to stop him from spinning himself up. He gently clasps Merlin's wrist with his other hand to stop him pulling away completely, mindful of the bandages beneath the sleeves. “Merlin," he says seriously. "I swear on my life that—"

Merlin shakes his head frantically, his grip becoming vice-like. "No! Swear on your honor, or your father’s grave, or your stupid dollop-shaped head, but _not_ your life. Please." 

Arthur nods. After a moment's consideration, he tugs Merlin's hand to his chest, places it over his heart. "Can you feel it beating?" 

“Yes,” he whispers.

“I swear on my _perfectly normal-shaped_ head that I am here, Merlin. I still don’t know how that came to pass, but I am. Trust me.” 

The other man noisily chokes down tears. He leans in, obviously itching to move closer, but unsure whether or not it'd be welcome. 

"Come on then, you great girl," Arthur slings a strong arm around Merlin's back and folds him against his chest. Merlin buries his face in his shoulder, wracked by shuddery, shaking sobs, and this time it is Arthur doing the soothing. He runs his hands up and down Merlin's back again and again until the other man has cried himself to exhaustion. 

"M'sorry," the apology is muffled against his skin. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"Never," Arthur promises, and he means it. "You are, without doubt, the strongest, bravest man I have ever met, and I—" _love you,_ he almost says, but he just _can’t_ when Merlin is being all weepy and vulnerable. It would feel too much like he was taking advantage. “I care. About you,” he says instead. “I’m glad you’re here.” _You’ve always been here when I needed you to be._

"I care about you, too. Probably too much," Arthur can feel the shape of a smile against his skin. It feels like he's burning up, having Merlin's lips on him. 

"You think I'm brave, though," Merlin pulls back enough to eye him dolefully, then draws further away to flop onto his pillows. "But I'm not. I'm a terrible coward. You'll see." And Arthur isn't in the mood to argue, so instead he gropes around to find the other man's hand in the dark. 

They lay there, fingers intertwined, staring up at the dark canopy above them. "Goodnight, Arthur," Merlin murmurs after a little while. 

Arthur hums, eyelids already drooping. "I’ll see you in the morning, Merlin.” 

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this was much fluffier than i was expecting? (does crying together in bed count as fluff? it does in eggspert's world) but ive chopped up this fic into a bunch of tiny ones to preserve my sanity. in the next one they're actually gonna Talk About Shit, and it therefore will probably be a bit angstier. like Arthur still hasn't seen the rest of the house, doesn't know it's modern day, doesn't know how long it's been. this chap was like the calm before the storm, i guess?
> 
> anyway hope u guys enjoyed it regardless!


End file.
